@tomarrymortmicrofics | 483 words
Tom returned home long after night had already fallen. An irritated sigh escaped him. He’d never regretted taking the route of becoming a private tutor after two gruesome years of working customer service at Borgin&Burkes, but he did think every now and then that maybe he should change careers. Sometimes he really thought he should have gone down the path of being a Dark Lord. Especially since parent-teacher-meetings were made A Thing.
As he made his way to the kitchen, where he would pour himself a glass of wine, he wished the days back where he could teach and accumulate a following of doe-eyed students that adored him as their all-knowing teacher. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be.
Instead he had to restrain himself from cursing their parents seven ways to Sunday, because they thought they could impose their beliefs about their children onto him in any way, shape or form. They couldn’t, of course, and more often than not they also left having adopted Tom’s point of view, but it was irritating. Especially the beginning of the year meetings were the most annoying, since parents always thought their children were the best of the best. And literal angels, of course.
It made him itch. It made him want to claw their eyes out. It made him want to ki– Tom stopped short, retraced his steps to look through the archway to the living room and couldn’t help but stare. Slender, but strong arms suddenly wrapped around his middle – Harry had never quite managed to discard his habit of walking silently, a habit his dreadful relatives had made necessary – and a chin settled gently on Tom’s shoulder.
“Do you like it?” Harry murmured quietly into his ear, tracing the shell of it with his nose, “I know how those meetings always set you on edge. I thought this might make you feel better.” Tom turned without breaking Harry’s hold on him and kissed him softly. “Thank you, Darling. Your gift has already lifted my mood by leaps and bounds.”
Harry grinned at him, took his hand and pulled Tom into the living room. They stopped just shy of touching Harry’s gift. Harry pointed at the collection of knives arranged artfully on the living room table. “I took care to prepare your knives for the occasion,” Harry said before kissing Tom on the nose, “She’s all yours. Have fun!”
Then he plopped himself on the nearest armchair, crossing his legs over one armrest and bracing his head on his hand on the other, presumably to better watch Tom. Tom couldn’t stop himself from grinning, even if he had tried, so he didn’t, and turned to once again look upon his gift from his husband.
Suspended from the ceiling hung one Ms. Cole, turning this way and that, rope cutting painfully into skin and eyes as wide as saucers. Yes, his mood had lifted considerably.
